


A Study in Dress Up

by summoninglupine



Category: The Adventures of Shirley Holmes (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Renaissance Faires, Star Trek References, unnecessary Victoriana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 15:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoninglupine/pseuds/summoninglupine
Summary: Renaissance faires, Star Trek fanclubs, Victorian cosplay, and criminal behaviour! How will our intrepid teen detective solve this latest mystery?
Relationships: Shirley Holmes/Molly Hardy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Study in Dress Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RecessiveJean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecessiveJean/gifts).

The hands of her wristwatch seemed to move with incredible slowness. What sort of girl, she wondered with dispassionate frustration, carried around plastic bags for evidence, anyway? What sort of girl involved herself in such matters, turning her attention to every story, every fragment of gossip? Was she just bored, was that it? Was her attention so dulled by school life that it stirred in her the need to enact these ridiculous little dramas? Certainly, Molly Hardy, 14-years-old and far too important to waste her time on talking down to the rest of the simpletons at her new school, could understand that frustration, that boredom—and yet the way in which she persistently carried herself, _that_ Molly could not understand.

In the absence of that boy, her annoying sidekick, Shirley Holmes, infuriating as she was, had seemed oblivious to how everyone else saw her, spending time with that ugly dog, Watson, or whatever its name was, and looking for all the world like a victim of _shell-shock_. How could someone be so oblivious, she asked herself, how could someone be so utterly, _thoroughly_ unaware of how they were perceived by others?

It infuriated her. This whole affair, playing second fiddle to her tireless do-gooding, if she hadn’t felt so moved at the pitiful sight of her, traipsing around with that ugly looking dog, then she wouldn’t have even considered getting herself involved. That was what she told herself, anyhow.

She hesitated to use the word rival, because such an admission would suggest that she herself was anything but peerless, and yet, if she were to concede the point, then that girl, Shirley Holmes in all her absurd glory, would certainly have been an interesting choice.

At least, she thought, considering the current circumstances, she was spared the absurdity of the other girl’s wardrobe choices.

Ahead of her, her petticoats pulled up and revealing far more of her legs than Molly was sure the Victorians would have found acceptable, she watched as the other girl investigated every corner of the stables, scooping up samples of dirt and splinters of wood in her plastic evidence bags, examining every tiny detail, both inside and out.

With agitation, she turned her attention again to the slow hands of her watch, trying not to think of how uncomfortable her tweed jacket was, of how uncomfortable the false moustache she wore was. 

It felt ridiculous, dressing up in such fashion, posing as that other girl’s husband when it was quite clear to all and sundry that, regardless of her vast intellect, she remained a 14-year-old girl. And yet Molly had found it difficult to argue, her cheeks flushing red when the other girl had made the suggestion.

Why do we have to pretend to be married, she had asked, making a point of looking away, a pretence of indifference.

The other girl’s face had lit up with a sort of innocent glee that had made Molly want to slap her. She pretended not to notice.

“It will disarm them, you see,” the reply had come with quick enthusiasm. “That won’t be expecting _us_ to be in costume, especially not the _wrong_ costumes.”

And certainly, the proprietors of this gaudy and absurdist renaissance faire had not expected two 14-year-old girls from Sussex Academy, one dressed in tweed and brogues, the other in frills and lace, but, well, Molly Hardy supposed they also hadn’t expected news of the accident that had occurred the day before to travel either.

_That_, apparently, had been what had gained the attention of the other girl. 

There had been rumours of discontent between the organising committee of the faire and a local group of fans of the television show, _Star Trek_, for a month before the event. Molly did not bother herself with the trivia of such details about the pastimes of others, however, in the weeks leading up to Hallowe’en, it had been impossible to avoid the friction between the faire’s committee members and these Trekkies or Trekkers or whatever they were called. There was a palpable atmosphere in the school corridors that would have been delightfully threatening had it not been so absurd.

Those Trekkies had made public their intent to stage a protest at the faire, their feelings hurt apparently at the committee’s instance of only period appropriate costumes for the Hallowe’en festivities. 

That was where their husband and wife act came in, Molly supposed; the other girl was hoping to draw out the criminals by infuriating them with their presently inappropriate attire. 

Whatever the case, she had watched with glee as events had unfolded, a horse escaping the stables before the jousting competition, and, apparently by accident, injuring the group of _Star Trek_ fans. She could not have predicted that, a day later, whilst that buffoon the other girl associated with was off visiting family somewhere in Indiana, some town with a tiny population of 16,661, that she would have been so easily roped into playing the loyal companion.

Again, her cheeks flushed red, and she moved her shoulders in the uncomfortable jacket, two sizes too big for her.

Why should we dress up as Victorians, she had pushed, her expression one of great displeasure. It was, after all, a _renaissance_ faire, an era in history which the Victorians went to great lengths to enshrine in their own records but fell starkly short of emulating. 

Again, Shirley Holmes had smiled in that way of hers that Molly had always considered to be infuriatingly smug.

“All the better to disarm them further,” she had proclaimed.

Watching her, oddly elegant despite the absurdity of her behaviour, Molly Hardy was forced to admit that the sight of Shirley, dressed in frills and lace, layers of petticoats and crinoline, _was_ certainly disarming.

She felt unusually flustered, the whole affair leaving her somewhat unsettled. She was uncertain if this discomfort arose from the fact that she, superior in every manner to her peers, had somehow been reduced to playing a supporting role to the other girl or whether it was she was doing, because, despite everything, despite her strong dislike of that little do-gooder and her impossible lack of subtlety and tact, she was beginning to develop something of an infatuation with her.

Was this how Stink Patterson felt, she wondered, constantly dragged along with the current of schemes he himself had not planned.

All of this was only happening because she had been so unjustly thwarted, Molly reminded herself; if that business with the ring had gone according to plan then perhaps she wouldn’t have been standing in a tweed jacket and fake moustache, watching Shirley Holmes snoop about with her plastic evidence bags and her oversized magnifying glass, looking for clues as to how a horse could escape a stable and cause significant damage to a gathering of _Star Trek_ fans.

It was nonsense, she fumed silently, the whole affair was _actual_ nonsense.

From behind a wooden beam, the hem of her dress now covered in strands of straw, Shirley Holmes emerged, a look of triumphant glee on her face as she held up one of those clear little bags, and Molly, despite herself, felt her heart flutter.

She tried to focus on the bag, the bolt of the gate now so far removed from its original location and isolated within the thin polythene of that silly little doggy bag.

“This proves it!” the other girl proclaimed with satisfaction. “The culprit removed the bolt from the gate and swapped it out for one they _knew_ would break!”

Her unwilling assistant folded her arms across her chest.

“It proves no such thing,” she remarked, more out of spite than anything. IQ of 160 and she had no reasonable argument for why the bolt hadn’t been replaced, and yet she yearned to believe that it had not simply because it would make the other girl look stupid.

She nodded at the bag being held up with such pride by her companion.

“All that proves is that you found what could be used as the bolt of a gate in amongst some straw in a stable. It doesn’t prove that anyone changed the bolt and threw that away.”

For a moment, the other girl looked fleetingly crestfallen. Molly delighted in this, delighted in the act of causing the other girl to doubt herself. Oh, this was it, she thought, this was why she had accompanied the other on this ridiculous little expedition; anything to cause grief, to cause strife—better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven, and all that.

Shirley Holmes tapped one dirty finger against her chin.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she began, “because—”

Molly groaned audibly and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, of course, you’re right. Someone obviously changed the bolt and excited the horse so it would break free.” She threw her arms up, her hands hidden in the sleeves of the oversized jacket. “I did it! I set the horse free! I’m the culprit! Punish me, Shirley Holmes, punish me!”

The other girl narrowed her eyes and Molly let her arms drop to her sides.

“Did you really, Molly?”

There was silence between them for a moment.

“No,” Molly sighed, “of course, I didn’t. I just wanted to give you what you wanted and put an end to this ridiculous little escapade.”

Shirley Holmes nodded, as if taking this into consideration.

“Then that means the criminal is still on the loose,” she remarked.

Again, Molly sighed.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, can’t you see it was obviously the faire’s committee members? It’s as plain as day!”

Shirley nodded once more, considering her words.

“I thought that too. It is the logical conclusion, after all.”

She hated logic, Molly thought sourly, there was no room for chaos within the framework of logic.

“But the bolt that was used in lieu of this one,” Shirley said thoughtfully, looking down at the plastic bag, “it was a different type of bolt. These stables were only built a few days ago, they’re supposed to be temporary, the bolt that broke was from an older set up and had been in use for far longer. It was the kind of bolt you use on a farm or a ranch, and—”

“And Fredrick Calohan is head of the _Star Trek_ fanclub at school _and_ his parents breed horses,” Molly completed, nodding along with enthusiasm.

Shirley Holmes, dressed in lace and frills, offered her companion a winning smile.

“Molly, I think we’ve found our culprit!”

Despite herself, Molly felt herself carried along in the excitement of it all. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, she reflected, this playing second fiddle, perhaps there was something in it after all.

She smiled, though she would certainly refuse to admit it later, and, incongruous in their roles as husband and wife from several centuries later than the faire’s established setting, she followed after the other girl in resolution of the case, resisting the urge to take her by the arm like an actual couple.

What had she become, she asked herself, faintly suddenly and slightly giddy. Perhaps being a servant in Heaven wasn’t so bad after all.


End file.
